


Chess

by sian22



Category: Pride (2014)
Genre: 80s disco, First time for everything, M/M, dutch courage, one night in bangkok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/pseuds/sian22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gethin may be gay but he's a taffy first.  Everyone's hips can move with a little encouragement.   A little prezzie for Gill and Telemachus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GillNotJill (Wynja2007)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/gifts), [telemachus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/gifts).



> Never written Pride before, let alone modern, real world......no idea if this is crap or ok...but...deep breath... one has to start somewhere. Soft foam brick bats gratefully accepted.

“What?!”    

Gethin shouts above the jungle-beat of the taki drums.   The young blond god who has asked the question leans in and bends down a little closer, mouth almost at Gethin’s ear.   He smiles..that is the thing.  Amongst the tall, buffed Saesneg a Welshman is almost always that little bit shorter than the rest. 

It makes them want to cuddle you.

“How do you do it?”  Jeff asks again, draping a long arm across his shoulders and nodding toward the dervish in purple and yellow paisley grinding across the pink-pulsing squares.   

"Do what?"

“Stand still while Jonathon drives everyone a little mad with longing." Jeff fiddles worriedly with the olive on his swizzle stick. He is into ever drier, ever arch martinis. Feels like they make him look a little older. "One of these days someone will get up there and won’t let go when the dancing stops.”     

“Really?” 

On the crowded floor the momentary trill of flute gives way to a stomping, pounding beat and the drawling rap that only Head can deliver with perfectly sarcastic ennui.    “ _I get my kicks above the waistline sunshine…”_

Jonathon, hair a tousled flying blur, buttons undone and sleeves rolled up, is lost in the music and the mood.  Gethin smiles. Body and soul are lost but his heart is firmly tethered.   They can admire from the sidelines or the floor all night long..   It will be his mouth upon those perfect nipples later. 

“Welsh men do not dance,” he adds, as if it is inscribed upon Yr Wyddfa’s black craggy peak.   They don’t, except for the requisite, embarrassing but thrilling, slow shuffle with your ‘gel’ and he never felt minded to try _that_.    

Besides, he thinks, even with years of practice he would never look like Jonathon.  Best to leave it to the pros.     

“Then why come _here_?”  Jeff is still puzzled, frowning, as he looks from Gethin,  black on shiny black, to Jonathon,  smile brighter than his golden glitter pants.  “Why not a pub?  Seems sad to have you stand all night.”    

Why indeed?  Gethin takes a sip of his Angel’s Kiss and looks around the silver papered not-quite dive.  Atomic Rooster is tiny but it has the best: best DJ, best lights, best sound.  All the bright young, things are drawn like moths to flame and none faster than his very own brightly-painted, slightly tattered moth. 

He shrugs.   The perfect, discretely-lined-in-black eyebrow raises above smokey lids and mascara’d lashes so thick and long they break girls’ hearts.  He is learning.  Makeup is no longer quite so terrifying and he has just bought his first silver-shot, boot cut pants.   In honour of Rooster’s beyond-hip reputation gorgeous, gorgeous Jeff has sprayed-on glitter Shrink-to-Fits so tight Gethin has no idea how he got them on without a supporting pit crew.   

For a moment they, and the confidence they represent, make him jealous. 

 “Jonathon adores its mascot.” 

“More than me?”  Jeff  bats his eyelids, purses pink-glossed lips into a pout  and puts his head over to one side.  _The_ Atomic Rooster, purple dildo glued to the front and matching perfectly its proud, flashing tail, rotates lazily above the disco ball.   

Geth laughs.  “More than vodka sometimes I think.” 

 _Cachu_ but the boy was cute.  A charmer.  His mouth waters for a second at the thought of those luscious lips pressing against his _pidyn_.  Neither he nor Jonathon have any interest in owning a toy, but…. maybe they could play with one for a little while? 

The beat has changed, the flute and horns bark above a pulse now slow and languid like the tide of desire rising on his blood.    _“I’d let you watch, I would invite you, but the queens we use would not excite you."_

He glances over to the floor.  Blake is dancing, fluid, abandoned to the need upon a lime green sea, eyes half-closed and a circle of adoring leather queens floating as planets to his sun.   Suddenly all Gethin wants to be in that orbit, showered by the rays of joy.  

He chugs his dutch courage a little faster, sets the square cut glass upon a nearby scarred wood top and licks lips gone a little dry.  Chocolate and a too young, searing brandy linger in the after taste, remind him of that flowing, tawny mane.  He wants to lose his fingers in its tumbling curls. 

_All of them._

 “This is more the thing.”  At least Gethin hopes it is.  The song has slowed and his hips might just be able to sway that fast.  Might. 

Jeff whistles and claps excitedly as he pushes with a determination he doesn’t feel toward the floor.    

Jonathon turns, flashes the blinding smile that is just for him.  Surely it and not abject fear is the reason Gethin’s heart is bursting from his chest.   

His cariad’s large warm hand reaches for his own, lying unfashionably pale, clenched a little nervously, at his side.   The jagged white slash from the razor of despair is just visible above Jonathon's golden wrist.  Two years, 800 days and counting..

 If Blake can dance….  

He lets himself be dragged into the purple glow, stands swaying stiffly as Jonathon’s  lips press warm below his ear and his sex warm between his hips.   

 _Get over yourself Geth._  You aren’t in Rhyl anymore, not a _bach_ , and none of it truly, truly matters. 

Light and easy, that is how to do it.  Hands rove along his back, knead the muscles a little as wet kisses now trail across his throat.   _Dancing is just like loving._  He lets his head fall back, lets scenes of rumpled sheets and the sheen of sweat and lube drift behind his eyes.     Circles steadily side to side the way he would back to front.  

Wolf whistles start to rise above the flute.   

 'Ah love I always knew you could.:" Jonathon's eyes glow dark indigo. It is primal, the need to dance with your mate.   "Your hips move fluidly and free at other times."  

And sure they do.  Then they aren’t his..they are Blake’s and they are one. 

“Only when I have you in my arms.” 

He breathes, dizzy, lost in the buzz and the slowly rising beat.  He lets his hips sway a little faster. 

Jonathon’s smile against his cheek is proud . 


End file.
